Just Paint It In Glory
by whitetiger117
Summary: Even if you paint it in light, even if you paint it in darkness, just paint it in glory. Bruce's cousin gets caught up in the events of a certain devious painted smile...  Follows events mainly in DK, Joker/OC, not a mary-sue. T for now.


**[All recognisable features in this FanFiction do not belong to me. I only own my OC.]**

My name is Alia Dentwood. I'm now 25 years old and lived in merry old England until ten years ago. I now live the United States of America, Gotham City if you want to be pedantic, with my cousin Bruce and dear old Alfred. I have cat shaped bright blue eyes which are always framed with Kohl unless I'm direly ill and can't crawl out of bed... My hair is a golden blonde which no matter what I do to it, it's never perfect but sheens in the sun with many highlights (all natural of course). My figure is slight but proportionate (healthy looking in my view) and I am around 5 foot 9 inches. I relate genetics wise to neither parents even though I know not much about my father as he abandoned my mother and I, on my second birthday, before I was able to blow out my candles upon my birthday cake. A ghost in history my mum referred to him as evermore, never existing but present upon the void in both of our hearts.

I remember the day my life pirouetted out of my control. I walked home alone, unlocked the front door to my house, key in hand I proceeded to the lounge, proclaiming my arrival back from school to my mother. I stopped mid-shout as I stared at the lump on the sofa. Hand to mobile, I dialled 999. The lump was my mother, sick congealed at her mouth, eyes glassed over. In my heart it was all a dream, but in my head I knew my heart was telling the simple truth of the situation – my mind could not men in green polyester suits came and carried the last fragment of my adoring mother away, requesting I went with them .

Room of bereavement in my local hospital, was a shabby desolate place for my mother, Caroline, in my grievous opinion. The limp curtains which were hung up seemed to say, 'If you cover them up – it didn't really happen!', I wished. I asked my questions which swam in my mind;

"Why did you leave me?"

"What did I do wrong?"

"Didn't you love me?"

"What will happen now?"

And finally I repeated the most important one on my conscience;

"Why did you leave me?"

The answer that came to light was a whispered "run". So I did.

I stumbled away from the four walls that repressed my mother inside. Tears contorted my vision as I targeted the exit. The automatic swing doors wheezed to life as I barrelled through them, sobs seeping out. I sat in the haven of the plastic bus shelter, just as sobs of hurt, confusion and love erupted from my chest. Seconds, minutes, probably hours slithered away, eventually the sobs quietened to nothing at all but, the tears streamed on, until the last spark of my dwindling energy was sapped.

That was the night my mother died. I stayed with my neighbours, an elderly couple, while further arrangements were made to where I would live. America was the easiest choice with my 17 year old cousin Bruce and his carer Alfred. The funeral came and went, condolences made. I didn't grieve as most people thought I would. They were mistaken of course for my uncanny trait of repressing events which flowed within my life. For example my dad leaving me – through the door he went, and also the time my mother and I lost everything to a house fire which started in my bedroom while I slept on inside, when I was a mere age of five. I still remembered my mother freaking out at the fireman, as he hauled me out, forever more I was deemed 'miracle-child' in our community but in school a freak, as the flames only licked my skin never bit. No pain involved.

One week. That's how long it took me after the funeral to get packed and get affairs sorted not that I had any affairs at the age of 15, that is except my mother's will paid out a hefty sum of money to me which I kept a secret to only myself, as to be plainly honest it was mine but I left a check of £100 to the elderly couple who looked after me – you know good manners and all that…

And so my journey began!

A new life, a new adventure, a new _me_. I felt I needed a new stronger sense of myself, a fresh self-worth if you wish to interpret that way. It was now Bruce, Alfred and I against the world, against all the accumulating evil that surrounded us, against Gotham.

***Authors note***

So this is my brand new idea! It'll lightly skim Batman Begins because I imagine this to be a Joker/OC.  
>My OC is based on the model Bar Rafaeli, she's stunning in my view and fits perfectly in my eye as her!<br>Please, please, please review! Not only do they make me smile to know that people actually read this but help me improve!  
>Any queries, advice etc etc just press that little button! Even if it's just a ' ' ;)<br>Whitetiger117 over & out!


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